


Day Drinking

by MindfulWrath



Series: Early Days Yet [4]
Category: The Glass Scientists (Webcomic)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Background Relationships, M/M, Robert Lanyon/Henry Jekyll - Freeform, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-12-06 23:50:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11611542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MindfulWrath/pseuds/MindfulWrath
Summary: After Lanyon's graduation, Jekyll isn't doing so well. Utterson tries to be a good friend.





	Day Drinking

Gabriel knocked on Henry's door, grim and apprehensive. He hadn't seen the man in two days, and by then had known him long enough to recognize that he probably hadn't slept or eaten in that time. Ordinarily, Robert would have taken care of it, but Robert was off in London, having a career.

"Henry?" Gabriel called. "Are you in there?"

There was a clinking of glass and a low groan. Gabriel tried the door and found it locked.

"Is everything all right?" he asked. It was a stupid question and he knew it, but there was precious little else he could think of to say.

When no answer was forthcoming, Gabriel pursed his lips and put his eye to the keyhole. He was greeted only by darkness, despite the fact that it was four o'clock in the afternoon. By moving his head back and forth, he could catch just the faintest slivers of light around the edge of the keyhole, and came to the conclusion that the key was still in the lock on the other side.

Gabriel looked over his shoulder. He chewed his cheeks. He rubbed the stubbly growth of his mustache. No one was about.

Carefully, he took an envelope from his pocket and slipped it under the door, just below the knob. He drew a long, ladies' hat pin from his hat and inserted it into the keyhole, pushing slowly but firmly. The key popped out of the lock on the other side and fell onto the paper with a loud _thwap._ Gabriel tugged it back under the door with his toe and collected the key and the envelope. He stuck the pin back into its place inside his hat, then unlocked the door.

He tried not to be pleased with himself. He oughtn't to have known how to do that. He certainly did not carry a concealed hat pin for the express purpose of conducting illegal key-based activities.

"Terribly sorry to intrude," he mentioned, as he stepped inside. Once he saw the state of the room, he didn't bother making any more excuses.

Henry was lying on the floor, disheveled and pale, surrounded by a truly unseemly multitude of empty bottles. As Gabriel entered, Henry let out another miserable groan, shaking his head weakly.

"Tut-tut," said Gabriel, crossing swiftly to him and kneeling at his side. He felt Henry's forehead and checked his pulse—the one was clammy and cool, the other weak and rapid. He wondered if he shouldn't call for a doctor.

Henry pried one eye open and made a face.

"Gabriel?" he slurred.

"Yes, yes," said Gabriel, while heat rose to his cheeks. Thank God nobody was there to hear, or poor Henry would have been mortified. "You seem rather ill. Shall I call for a doctor?"

Henry shook his head again, waving a hand aimlessly.

"No, 's nothing. 'S fine, 'm fine. Might—be sick, 's fine, 's for th' best. Sorry. So sorry."

"Hm," said Gabriel, pursing his lips. "Well. At the very least, we can't have you lying on the floor any longer."

 _"Like_ th' floor," Henry mumbled. "Swear—'s where I _belong."_

"Tut-tut," Gabriel said again. He got an arm under Henry's knees and one under his shoulders and lifted him up in a bridal carry. He was not light, but he was not as heavy as Gabriel had expected. His head lolled and then came to rest against Gabriel's chest. Henry draped an arm over his shoulder, fingertips brushing the back of his neck.

Fortunately, he did not say anything. He seemed to be preoccupied with trying to breathe properly. Gabriel carried him to his bed and set him down, then spent a moment arranging him so that he would lie on his side.

"Stay there," he said, with his hand on Henry's shoulder.

Henry patted his wrist. "Mm," he said.

That done, Gabriel set about cleaning up the mess. He collected no fewer than eight wine bottles, which he fervently hoped had been consumed over the course of many days, but which he suspected had not been. He also found a letter from Robert, so stained with tears that the ink had run. He folded it up and put it away in Henry's desk, resolved to pretend he had never seen it. If he had caught a few key phrases as he'd folded it—things like _tremendously busy_ and _several months_ _at least_ _—_ then those, too, he would summarily forget.

He cast about to see if there was any drinking water handy, for Henry would surely be in need of it. He found a likely-looking pitcher, but it was dusty and half-empty. Frowning, he looked back at Henry, and then at the pitcher, and then at Henry again.

"Henry?" he said.

"Mmn," said Henry, with a sleepy wince.

"I'm off to find you some sort of drinking water. Will you be all right while I'm gone?"

"Fine, 'm fine," said Henry. "Go, go on, go 'way."

Gabriel was not certain he believed this, but he had little choice. He took the pitcher and left the room. After a moment's deliberation, he locked the door behind him. Henry certainly wasn't going anywhere, and he wouldn't have wanted anyone to see him in such a state.

It took him nearly a quarter of an hour to find a pump he deemed trustworthy, where he poured out all the old water and refilled the pitcher from the bottom. Then it was ten minutes to get back to Henry's room, the whole time feeling terribly self-conscious about this pitcher of water he was carrying about. It seemed an odd and irregular thing to be doing, especially because he didn't see anybody else doing it. Therefore, it was with some relief that Gabriel let himself back into Henry's room and shut the door behind him.

Henry, for his part, had not moved an inch since Gabriel had left, and indeed was snoring admirably. This was mainly a comfort because it made it obvious that he was still breathing.

Having nothing better to do, Gabriel set down the pitcher for whenever Henry woke up, and then set himself down at the desk. It was tempting to peek through Henry's notes, just to see what sorts of things they studied in medical school, but he resisted. It would be a terrible breach of privacy and, what's more, he might get caught at it and have to explain himself. Instead, he borrowed a sheet of paper and a pen and set about outlining his next review paper, which wasn't due for another two months but which he was already feeling behind on.

After an hour or so, Henry's snoring hiccuped, and he shifted in the bed. Gabriel remained at the desk until he saw Henry roll over onto his back, at which point he was forced to get up and go put him back on his side.

"No, no," he scolded gently. "You might choke. Stay on your side, there's a good man."

"Let me choke, then," Henry moaned, his face drawn with discomfort. "I wish I was dead."

"Tut-tut," said Gabriel. He sat down on the side of the bed, keeping a reassuring hand on Henry's shoulder. "You ought to drink some water, and then you'll feel better."

"I don't _want_ to feel better, I want to be _dead,"_ Henry declared, his face half-buried in his pillow.

"Now," said Gabriel, frowning at him. "That sort of talk is entirely unhelpful." And then, because he was atwisty man, "What would Robert think, if he heard you talking like that?"

To his dismay, Henry burst into tears. Gabriel cursed himself and his twistiness, good intentions be damned.

"He wouldn't _care,"_ Henry wailed. "He doesn't _care,_ he's gone on—on to everything better, and he's—he's forgot all about me, and—and probably hates me, and he _should,_ and he _should,_ he's only just figured it out now because I'm not—because—"

"Oh, come now," Gabriel said stiffly. He cast about for some kind of help, but there was none. Henry continued bawling like a child, and Gabriel had as much idea of what should be done as if someone had foisted an armload of railroad hammers upon him.

"He hasn't—sn't written, it's been _days,_ I know he's—I know. I _know,_ Gabriel, and now you've—you hate me too, you must, everyone does and everyone should, and I . . . and I. . . ."

"I most certainly do not hate you," said Gabriel. "And nor does Robert. There was a letter from him, I thought? I'm sure I saw it."

 _"Weeks_ old," Henry moaned. "'S been—been three _weeks_ and he hasn't—and nothing, _nothing,_ and what's it matter, I wish I was _dead."_

Gabriel pursed his lips. "Is that what this is about?" he asked. "Robert's forgotten to write you and therefore you drink yourself sick?"

"I know, I know. It's stupid, it's so stupid, I'm an idiot, Gabriel, I'm so—I'm so damnably stupid. I thought—how could I _ever_ have thought that Robert—that Robert could—"

His legs were pushing all the covers off his bed, a slow and uncoordinated squirming that may have been involuntary. He tried to roll onto his back again, and again Gabriel put him right.

"You aren't stupid, Henry," Gabriel said. "Nor an idiot. You are just very, very drunk."

"Oh, hell," Henry said, and laughed helplessly.

For a time, neither one of them said anything. Henry's breathing was quick and shallow, tears still flowing steadily from his eyes.

"Could you drink some water?" Gabriel asked at last.

"I don't know," Henry mumbled.

"Will you try?"

Henry sniffled, then heaved himself upright. Gabriel fetched him a glass of water and, with some encouragement, managed to get him to hold onto it. Henry swayed where he sat, eyes half-closed and unfocused. His color was poor. Gabriel had to prompt him again to get him to drink.

"How long have you been locked up in here?" Gabriel asked, more out of a desire to keep him upright and conscious than anything else.

"Don't know," Henry said.

"I haven't seen you in two days," said Gabriel.

"Oh," said Henry. "Really? Oh. Perhaps two days, then."

"Mercy," Gabriel muttered, rubbing his forehead. "You never mentioned that Robert had stopped writing, I think?"

"No, it wasn't—it's not your—your—whatever it is, not yours. S'pose he's been writing you all the same. Hasn't he. Hasn't he?"

"I haven't heard from him lately," said Gabriel, which was technically true. He did not mention that Robert wrote him regular as clockwork on the first of every month, just to keep in touch. Gabriel's letters in return were of a good length but excruciatingly dull, a fact which Robert seemed to delight in pointing out to him.

"Oh, God," Henry said, his eyes going wide and his face growing even paler. "I hope nothing's _happened_ to him. You don't—you don't think he's in trouble, do you? I didn't even think. . . ."

"I'm sure Robert's fine," said Gabriel. To his horror, Henry started crying again.

"Of course he is," he said thickly. "Of course he is, now that he's—now that he's rid of _me."_

"For God's sake," Gabriel sighed. "Drink your water, Henry."

"What's the _point,"_ said Henry, listing forward over his own knees. Gabriel took the glass from him before he spilled it everywhere, then put an arm across his chest to keep him from folding in half.

"Do you sincerely think that Robert is the only person in the world who cares about you?" Gabriel demanded, in a fit of pique.

"He doesn't, he hates me," Henry sniffled. "And so do you and so should everybody. I wish you'd go away, so I could die in peace."

In flagrant contrast to this, he wrapped both his hands around Gabriel's forearm and leaned into it. His grip was firm, but not tight, the slender fingers curled around but the thumbs tucked neatly against the hands. It would have been an easy grip to break. Gabriel did not break it.

"I'm afraid if you're going to die, I'm obliged to make it difficult for you," he said.

"Don't you have _things,_ Gabriel? Don't you have _things_ to do?"

"Nothing important," he said.

"That's a lie."

"Nothing _as_ important."

"Everything more important," said Henry.

"You are simply impossible," Gabriel said, at a loss.

"I know, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," said Henry, hanging his head. He canted to one side and fell against Gabriel's chest. Gabriel was forced to catch him before he slithered out of his bed and cracked his head open on the floor. He set the water down, because Henry was quickly going from being a handful to being _two_ handfuls.

"I'm not leaving until I'm confident you're well," said Gabriel.

Henry twisted about until his shoulders were resting on Gabriel's thigh and his legs were propped up on the wall. He gazed up at Gabriel, teary-eyed and sniffling.

"I don't deserve you," he said. "I don't deserve you at all, Gabby, where did you come from?"

 _"Gabby?"_ Gabriel sputtered, but Henry was still going regardless.

"You're an angel," he said. "Truly an angel, and I don't deserve you, nobody deserves you. You're the only—the only good man in a world of—of—of bad men."

"I . . . doubt that," said Gabriel, still off-balance.

"It's true, really," said Henry. He reached up and touched Gabriel's cheek. Gabriel locked up completely, his skin burning from his scalp to his toes. "Brightest and best and beautifullest."

"Really now," Gabriel squeaked. Henry traced the shell of his ear with one finger, trailed his hand down to rest on the back of Gabriel's neck.

 _"_ _Comprenez_ _-vous le latin?"_ Henry murmured, and even as drunk as he was, his accent was impeccable.

"Do I. . . ? Yes, well, of course," said Gabriel, struggling to keep up. "Use a good deal of it in law. Quid pro quo and all that."

Henry laughed, although there was more pity in it than Gabriel could account for.

"Poor darling Gabriel," he said, rubbing the back of his neck with his thumb. "You'd overlook the sun if it wasn't pointed out to you."

"What?" said Gabriel, and then, as he finally got it, _"Oh._ I—well. Never gave it much thought. Um. Hm."

"First time for everything," Henry said, and pulled himself up and Gabriel down, eyes drifting closed, lips parted.

Gabriel put a gentle, but firm, hand on Henry's chest.

"No," he said, though his heart was pounding and his mind was as far from clear as it had ever been.

"Oh, God," Henry gasped, dissolving into tears for the third time. "God, I'm sorry, I'm disgusting, I'm pathetic, I'm—"

"Very, very drunk," said Gabriel. "And in the event that you don't remember this when you're sober, then . . . neither shall I."

"I ruin _everything_ I touch!" Henry said, heedless. "And now you _must_ hate me, now—"

"I must do no such thing," Gabriel interrupted, fed up with him. "I care very deeply for you, Henry, and I care very deeply for Robert, and _that_ is why I am telling you no. You are both my very dear friends and I will do nothing to jeopardize that, up to and including allowing you to drink yourself to death!"

"Don't deserve you," Henry mumbled again.

"No," Gabriel sighed, "and yet here I am, and here I shall remain."

Finally, Henry seemed to have no rebuttal, so Gabriel patted his shoulder and retrieved the glass from the floor.

"Drink your water, Henry," he said.

"All right," said Henry.


End file.
